We're back! That's right, all our exams are over, and since we have nothing better to do for a fairly (excuse the pun) seerious amount of time, we're going to be finishing off this story pretty soon. The final and potentially gargantuan chapter 13 is being written right now, and the epilogue will follow soon. Wow. It's almost over. This story has been in the works since January, so forgive me if I'm getting a little sentimental…
This is Chapter 10 in all it's completed glory, beta'd, referenced and even spell checked for your reading pleasure.
Since I'm feeling especially generous today – must be the chocolate talking, here's a new quote for the chapter, as well as the old one, because I liked that one too.
Previously on Quote of the Week…
"We leave you with Pythagorus, bane of school children and triangular objects:
'Do not say a little in many words but a great deal in a few' "
And now…
"Mend your speech a little
Lest it may mar your fortunes"
King Lear Act 1, Scene 1
Chapter 10 : Where the Streets Have a Meaningful Name
Hermione Granger was at an impasse. A stalemate, on hiatus, out of the game, singing to the wrong tune and dancing to the wrong rhythm when she did anything at all. But mostly she was at an impasse, because it was, when you thought about it, a very tidy phrase.
Her problem was that she had a lot of money. She had an amount of money, with the monthly increases, payments from sales and patents, and then interest, that was fast approaching what you could call obscene. Now if you were a Malfoy, or some other landed gentry with a good business sense and bottomless vaults, it would perhaps be a paltry amount – just enough to tide you over for three of four lifetimes of unashamed extravagance and luxury – no where near enough to found a dynasty, but to Hermione Granger, middleclass girl made good it was a fortune.
And herein lay her problem. Like every good businesswoman, or even businessman, she had set up the system so that each and every part worked seamlessly, like a well oiled fish. There was a pause in her thoughts as she recalled that although fish were indeed oily in some cases, the phrase she was looking for was a well oiled machine. Well-oiled-fish was as ridiculous a phrase as a well-oiled-Snape, for he was surely as greasy as any fish she had ever eaten.
Though, if any of the rumours she had been hearing were true, either Snape or Sirius would need to be well oiled at least some of the time. If it were true, she'd have to chalk it up to Draco's influence. It had been nice for her to see him at the party, although she suspected he hadn't really enjoyed being there at all. Things had seemed tense between him and his father, although it could have just been the tightness of the trousers giving him the strained look on his face.
Mentally, she slapped herself about the head. She didn't dare do it physically – lord knew she seemed to have already lost enough brain cells. There she was daydreaming right in the middle of her complaint on not having anything to do but daydream…and daydreaming about naked, oiled men…it was either very wrong or she was finally losing her grip on reality.
But her problem was simply that she was a victim of her own success. Each aspect and division of her self-fulfilling prophecy fridge magnet business had been set up with such ruthless efficiency and planning, so that she could safely turn her attention to other areas. She'd even asked Draco to design some natty red uniforms for her Arithmetical army. However everything had come full circle in the past year, everything had fallen into place, and she had completed all aspects of her plan. It left her with a number of uses: figurehead and signatory to any document no-one else wanted to take responsibility for. All the while, sitting in her office, with nothing to do but daydream and contemplate which society events to attend, raking in the money.
What she needed was a challenge, something to wrap her brain around and sink her teeth into, before her ridiculous reliance on figures of speech became complete and her brain turned to mush…now there was a thought. No, not pureeing her brain and selling it for medical experiments, but speech. She had done her gap year with the English Speaking Union, a very worthy organisation that was constantly striving to increase the number of English speakers, and better the quality of the English they spoke. Surely, they would have something for her to put her formidable intellect and talents to, and with that thought in her mind she dug out their most recent newsletter.
Which was how we come to find a certain Miss Hermione Granger sitting alone (in that she was unaccompanied, rather than with a six foot exclusion zone around her due to some inexplicable body odour or personality problem) at a conference of the English Plain Speaking Union emergency meeting. The EPSU was a growing branch of the ESU, fuelled mainly by the increasing number of politicians and civil servants that arrived with the advent of democracy worldwide, and the ridiculously longwinded, obtuse and opaque (not to mention expensive) reports they produced. But this meeting had peaked Hermione's attention precisely because it dealt not with the usually mockery of press conferences and memoranda on import controls of sprouts and the such like, but with one of the magical world's home grown problems: a certain Mr Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
Apparently his inability to use one word when one word alone would do (as witnessed by his very name – why have one middle name when you can have three?) had grown to epidemic proportions, and was threatening to infect and tarnish the linguistic abilities of a whole generation of school children. The statistic (shocking statistic I would say, but these days shocking and statistic have become synonyms) was that on average he used seventeen words where one would be quite enough.
Something, it was concluded had to be done. And that something was to for a committee to discuss what else could be done. Hermione spotted the opportune moment to exert the domineering aspect of her personality, and volunteered to chair said committee. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Except that, this being an AU fictional universe that exists entirely in the author's head and hard drive, it's a history that only I know. So I shall have to tell it to you.
In the Year of Our Lord 2001, there was a woman who called herself Hermione Granger. This woman was passably beautiful, rich and intelligent and had a vision to do great things. Her fridge magnet had told her that she would.
The morning had dawned clear and sunny, the last vestiges of an Indian Summer (imported courtesy of the fair trade organisation) still clinging to grounds of Hogwarts. Dumbledore was safely ensconced in his circular office, even though he was entirely alone, still performing to his gallery of portraits. They had long ago ceased to be impressed by his antics and were migrating away to other wall-mounted abodes, even as Hermione was wending her way deliberately towards him. Their paths were simply destined to cross, certain as death, taxes and procrastinating students.
The committee's will would be done. Forms had been filed in triplicate and forwarded to the correct departments. Dumbledore was going to have his word count dramatically reduced, have his verbosity vivisected and a clear path hewn through his Byzantine labyrinth of conversation, his colourfulness culled and his hyperbibliographia hacked down. "One Word When One Word Will Suffice" was their war cry. The lone voice that had proposed "Succinctness" had been voted down, this committee again adhering to the idea that while democracy was still a pretty flawed form of government, it was a damn sight better than all the others. Unless you were a dictator (which we maybe ought to point out, Hermione with all her Griffie goodness didn't have it in her to be), when it was probably not so good. So Hermione, good crusader to the OWWOWWS rallying cry that she was, new convert to the cause, was currently striding along the Hogwarts halls, a beater's club and a set of pins and hammers cunningly concealed under her voluminous robes.
Through some sophisticated arithmetic computation and an in-depth study of the ancient and sacred art of phrenology (i.e. she had sat up all the previous night reading bits of everything she could get her hands on in some attempt to make sense of it all, scribbled some notes down which may or may not have seemed coherent to her at that point, but never would again, then collapsed into bed purposefully not setting the alarm.) she was now certain that while a beaters bat might not be the most suitable object for the job, it was the best opening salvo she was likely to come up with. One good swing, he'd be down and she'd be able to begin the technical bit in blissful silence.
That was the plan. How, dear reader, likely is it that it will turn out like that?
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The theory of retro-phrenology that she had developed from her earlier study of phrenology was simple enough. The bumps in your skull (said phrenology), like your handwriting, the names you gave your pets or kids, the colour you painted your guttering and which nostril you breathed through by preference (none of these being part of the theory of phrenology) could tell an observer something about your personality. So by a simple twist of Ankh-Morpokian logic, beating someone's skull into a new and improved shape should result in a matching new and improved personality. And even if it didn't, at least it afforded the satisfaction of clubbing said annoying personality of the head a few times to work out your frustrations. In the end, everyone's a winner, except perhaps those with permanent brain damage.
[A/N: Medic I may be, but this came from Terry Pratchett and not a text book, so none of y'all will be trying this at home will you?]
So it was that Hermione came to be knocking on Dumbledore's gargoyle. For those of you who haven't tried, it's kind of hard to knock on a gargoyle, even when it's made out of stone. However this was a magical gargoyle, that was capable of moving, and if the mood took it biting. This gargoyle was not so much into biting, though, as it was into wriggling, squirming and whinging that the aforementioned knocking hurt, thank you very much. We think it may have been related to Sirius. Eventually, though, she made her way in and up the stairs to the outside of his office.
Before she had been somewhat squeamish about what she was about to do, having to remind herself that it was for the good of the youth of the nation. Now, after all the hassle this so call omniscient headmaster had put her through, she just wanted to clout him one. In fact, she was starting to regret not having brought a shovel. Or a cricket bat. It might have been clichéd, but it would have been more satisfying. Instead she gripped the beaters club concealed in the folds of her robe a little tighter and knocked on the office door with purposeful strikes. The ominous thuds they made really should have been a warning of what was about to come to the aged man inside, but then, like all other players in such scenes, we are left to assume that he hadn't seen enough scary movies to know this.
Instead, he invited on Miss Hermione Granger, star of Hogwarts, entrepreneur, eligible bachelorette and hopeless sucker for lost causes to come in and have a cup of tea, and tell him what was on her mind. She didn't have the heart to reply that it was what was in his mind that was on her mind, instead settling for smiling and nodding and settling awkwardly into her chair. It seemed such stiff movements and lack of verbal responses were worrying said Dumbledore, diverting him down totally the wrong track, but even this distraction didn't stop him from diving after the bowl of lemon drops when Hermione "accidentally" clipped it while reaching for her tea cup.
Now why, you might ask, does a man with magic at his fingertips dive after a bowl of sweets that could easily be restored to their former glory by a simple flick of the wand? But what you must recall was that the lemon sherbet obsession was something that predated Albus's magic into his childhood, and what we were seeing now was an almost-Pavlovian response. It was, as all good foxes and snakes out there know, the opportune moment to strike, with the opponent unawares and unsuspecting, beneath her very hands.
Hermione, being the good Gryffindor that she was marshalled her courage and dived in, so to speak. The bat moved up, and with more speed and strength than she had credited herself with, flashed down, until the last moment when Albus turned from his crouched position on the floor with more speed and agility than she would have ever credited him with and caught the bat right above his head. Jerking it free from her hand and Hermione almost off her feet, he righted himself with a surprising amount of grace and dignity, considering he had just been scrabbling on the floor for hard-boiled lumps of sugar.
To say the look he gave her was cold as a Siberian Winter is probably an insult to Siberian winters everywhere, but particularly those in Siberia, their geographical location being a virtually essential part of their Siberian nature. But nevertheless, he gave her a particularly frosty look, the kind he normally saved for animal-rights protestors who found out about the fate of the Hogwarts badger.
He was also fingering the beater's bat he had liberated somewhat suggestively. And as he is old, wrinkly and probably impotent (and not in the magical sense, either) by this point in his life, I'll clarify what the suggestion was. Violence, or possible retaliation.
Hermione, having just a little bit of Slytherin in her (despite never having been in a relationship with either a Malfoy, or even "I am Snape, Potions Master" as he no doubt thought of himself) decided that the best way to play this was with hurt feelings. Dumbledore, like herself, had always been a sucker for the plight of the helpless.
"But…" she stuttered, as lamely as she could manage "But I know Retrophrenology!"
Albus raised the bat thoughtfully, and then laid it down on the desk behind him. And drew his wand, which in all fairness, probably wasn't a change for the better. As he struck an uncharacteristically arrogant pose, wand levelled straight at her, Hermione decided that it was time to produce her own wand. And, as expected, Dumbledore showed himself to be a true Gryffindor (or stupid, if you don't consider the two synonyms) and allowed her to do this. I mean, who would let their unarmed opponent level the odds, unless they were intent on following the rules of engagement and chancing loosing a fair fight rather than knowing they would win an unfair one? Especially when cheating involves a certain Mr Bloom covered in chocolate powder? A Gryffindor, it seems, and all the other hopeless idealists the world over.
So, while all this description has been unfolding, both had drawn their wands, and were once again in a stand-off. Hermione thought it was definitely Murphy's Law at work, the first proactive thing she had done in a long while had resulted in her being so quickly at an impasse once again, but then other thoughts and philosophical musings were pushed to one side as Albus flicked his wand and said, "Show me."
(For those of you with a short working memory, he was talking about her claim to know retrophrenology.)
Immediately Hermione accio-ed one of the delicate tools she had packed to use, after she had bludgeoned him into unconsciousness and couldn't appreciate the subtlety, of course, and sent it speeding towards his head. Only for it to be stopped and turned into a rather large and colourful parrot that flew away squawking "Pieces of eight, pieces of eight" and proceeded to bounce off several of the walls.
Evidently a greater level of cunning would be needed for her to score a hit. She was racking her brains as he spoke again:
"Stop trying to hit me and hit me."
To which the only reply was "Whoa, déjà vu, already."
"No, that comes later in the script."
"Ah, okay, sorry. So, back to hitting you."
This time she sent two of the hammers at him, one as a hammer, but one cunningly disguised as a pomegranate, charmed to turn back into a hammer on contact with his skull. Unfortunately he saw through the ploy, and registered the pomegranate not as a part of the vegetable throwing tradition ubiquitous in medieval England, but an attack of the same merit as the other hammer. The undisguised hammer was turned into a giant spider, and the pomegranate was simply exploded. And as anyone who has tried to drink undiluted pomegranate juice knows, an exploding pomegranate is a rather sticky experience. On the plus side, the spider seemed to hate it as much as the humans, and curled up in a little ball trying to disentangle its legs. Not that Hermione was scared of spiders, she was, as we have mentioned, a very special girl.
"Do you honestly think that your magic can have any effect on me, here in my office, my sanctum?" Dumbledore asked, approaching her slowly. Hermione's face tightened in concentration as she ran through ideas and disregarded them one after the other, until they were face to face and she had but one idea left.
"Do you think that's an original thought you're thinking?" he asked, evidently mistaking exactly what her intentions were. But then again, he was a guy, and they always think they know what's going on, even when they clearly don't, especially in reference to instruction manuals.
Pausing a moment, Hermione thanked whatever gods that might be listening that the reason for the hellish trip she had once taken to Glasgow in the snow had finally become clear and head-butted him with all her might. The Glasgow Kiss has always been a pretty conclusive way to end and argument.
"Yes, I think it might be." She replied to the unconscious body on the floor, and then immediately felt bad. There was a time for quips, and against a downed opponent, whatever the movies might tell you, wasn't it. But it was satisfying, she admitted to herself, and then felt worse.
She settled for stupefying Dumbledore, and taking her frustrations out on his skull with that tiny set of hammers she still had left.
Later, when Poppy Pomfrey found him still collapsed on the floor of his office, wand neatly tucked away, blood all cleaned up and nary a bruise (spider, parrot or coating of sticky juice on everything either) to be seen, and the man himself, once roused, with no memory of what had happened, she was at an utter loss.
In lieu of anything more sensible to suggest, she tucked him up in bed and told him he had a virus.
A virus from which he seemed to recover reasonably well, despite the fact that whenever he made a speech or answered a question those who knew him well all shared a common thought: Who are you and what did you do with Albus Dumbledore??
Only a select few, a secret order, knew the answer to that question, and they were all too smug and self-satisfied to share. Although that didn't stop them from having regular reunions to glory in their…well…glory, even if was reflected from a certain very special girl, whom they also took a perverse pleasure in making the subject of long and wordy toasts. Irony, it seems, is a constant that should be added to death and taxes.
It was after one of these reunions, and one of the more unavoidable kinds at that, that Hermione found herself in London with time on her hands. The thought of returning home to her cold (though nothing a few heating charms couldn't solve) and empty (not so easily dealt with) house held no appeal, and she found herself admitting that she was lonely. So she decided to look up an old friend. And since Harry had done a highly successful Houdini act in these past years, and all she knew of him was that he was in London somewhere, since Ron felt compelled to stay there – and yes, she knew about all of that as well – that left the aforementioned Ron. It was fair to say that she hadn't been the most popular girl at Hogwarts. Or guy. Not to suggest that she was in any way shape or form a guy, or even masculine, but equality is all these days. So it was fair and politically correct to say she was not the most popular girl or guy at Hogwarts.
A few location charms and frustrations around one-way streets and at pedestrian crossings later, she found herself (and funnily enough, Ron) in a room that had definitely seen better days. It was a room even the student population at large would not rent, and that's saying something. Still, in the way of the Weasleys Ron was definitely making the best of it, and it's clichéd but true, there was more cheer in the little building that Hermione had mustered in the last year. It made her fiercely nostalgic for Hogwarts and the sheltered environment that they had enjoyed (excepting the annual attempt on Harry's life, and by association, theirs, of course). She found herself catching up with Ron, and all the events that had passed in both their lives since leaving Hogwarts, talking well into the night until everyone else around abouts had given up and gone to bed, and the both of them were curled up in blankets, comfortable at last on their cushions, too at ease to move.
Finally, as they were both getting drowsy and ready to fall asleep, Ron muttered, "So what's it like, being successful?"
Hermione studied the cracks in the ceiling, her eyes leading her to a particular stain. It could be she decided, before answering, either an elephant with a skirt on or a man being stabbed in the back. Talk about going from the ridiculous to the deadly serious. It was with such musings in mind that she decided to answer,
"Much like not being successful. You still want things you don't have; you just have more money to not be able to buy them with."
"Huh? Did you just trot out an 'it's not all it's cracked up to be/money can't buy you happiness' line?"
"I guess I did. Sorry. Some people are just born with tragedy in their blood."
Ron snorted, and not elegantly or surreptitiously either. He wanted her to know just how dumb that sounded.
"You mean you're feeling sorry for yourself and want me to make you feel better. Well leaving aside the fact that I'm probably the most tactless person you know-"
But whatever else Ron had to say was suddenly cut off. For a few moments there was silence, then Ron whimpered and proceeded to curl himself up into as small a ball as a tall, lanky, twenty-something-year-old possibly could. He may also have been shaking a bit, but in the dark, Hermione wasn't all that sure. For dramatic effect let's say that he was.
Eventually the fit of ague – for what else could it have been? – passed and Ron came back to himself. Only to find himself cuddled up in Hermione's arms, which unfortunately he found nowhere near as interesting as he would have in his teenage years.
Hermione was concerned about him, in that intense and patronising way that she had retained from her school days. She was starting to talk about potions and charms, and belatedly he realised she was enquiring whether he needed to renew the charms to negate the curse that had been placed on him, or if Harry had moved so he was too far away. He began to tell her that no, it was neither, he wasn't that forgetful and Harry had learnt his lesson after the seventh anvil had fallen on his head, before his brain engaged and he realised that she wasn't supposed to know the workings of the curse. Not in such detail anyway. It had been of some peripheral interest for a while in the wizarding world that The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-Voldemort-In-An-As-Yet-Unspecified-Way's sidekick had been hit by an incurable curse that essentially rendered him a parasite on aforementioned Boy-With-Ridiculously-Long Title. It was of more than a peripheral interest to his family of course, but by the time all the details had been fully established most of them had more pressing things on their minds, or just couldn't deal with any more bad news and ran, ran away.
Well, with Hermione, one should never be surprised that she knew everything. She seemed to have made a career and a livelihood of being an insufferable know-it-all. Worse yet, she had made a career of imprinting her know-it-allness onto a device that could ambush you as you retrieved milk for your first cup of coffee for the day, which when one thought about it was about as low as you could get. He'd expected better of her, to be perfectly honest. It was really quite Slytherin to catch people off-guard like that.
He decided that turnabout was indeed fair play. He revealed to her what he had never revealed to another living being….that despite his mockery of divination; he had turned out to be a pretty gifted seer. Except that he had trouble making visions come on demand, and making the headache leave with the vision. And as the last vision he experienced was entirely on the subject of one Miss Granger and her woes, he did suppose he should enlighten her.
Which was how, somewhere down the line of what had turned out to be a less awkward conversation than he might have imagined, given Hermione's less recent experiences with divination, he ended up saying,
"And so I saw this guy, in the vision. I've never seen him before, but I think you have, and it seems it's important that you meet him. He's about my height, dark hair, a bit too neat for my tastes, with a significant name. You met him standing in front of something that was burning, and that's all I could see. Any ideas?"
"Well there is someone who could fit the bill, I met him at a bonfire party," she replied with some tactful editing of the truth. Ron had never got to grips with the Harry liking Malfoy, let alone her liking him once he'd admitted she'd got a better punch than he did. "But-"
"But what?"
"But he's called Derrick. That's hardly a significant name."
"Well, if it sounds like him, I'm sure it'll all come clear in the end. You should try to meet him."
"He's been calling my office trying to make an appointment for a while."
"And?"
"I've been busy." She lied, not so masterfully.
"You mean you didn't want to hear what he had to say."
And with that Ron had indeed hit it on the head. She still remembered the gist of what Derrick had had to say. A muggleborn like herself, he was distressed at the lack of social support he saw in the wizarding world, and as a do-gooder he was determined to make his mark. In the politest possible way of course.
She had simply remarked that the air was getting cold at this time of year and he had said that the streets were especially cold at this time of year, the chill November air invading every nook and cranny (he was of a somewhat poetic wont). That Diagon Alley was no better than Muggle London if you didn't have a roof over your head, and most wizards were notoriously tight when it came to the old Good Samaritan routine. The rationale went thus – if you were a half way decent wizard, no, let me rephrase, if you were any good at magic - a spot of fraud, a dash of petty larceny and a few memory charms had you set up nicely. This attitude toward life explained why there were no homeless Slytherins, and also went some way to explaining the disconcerting lack of soup kitchens, Big Issue like publications and so on in the Wizarding World. Almost everyone in a position of power was a Slytherin, them being the ambitious ones and all, and frankly my dear, they didn't give a damn. And he thought that someone with ideas and drive (him) and money (her) ought to do something about it.
And since then she had been avoiding him, not so much actively as apathetically, thinking that becoming a self-made millionaire and then devoting herself to charity was another one of those clichés that have Riddled so many holes in this chapter giving it a more than passing resemblance to Swiss cheese. But after the satisfying experience of giving Dumbledore a long overdue sorting out she was beginning to realise just why people did devote themselves to charity when they had built up their empire. Not just for the kick of doing good things, but for the pleasure of building up something again, that being after all what she did best. Ron was right, she had to meet Derrick.
And so it was that over a very cosy little lunch tucked away in a London restaurant, GALLOWS was born. Or possibly reincarnated in a less sinister form than the previous one belonging to the genus gibbet.
The Gryffindor Association for the Least Lucky Of Wizarding Sorts was well aware than it had acronym problems, but embraced them as a talking point. The first of these hostels were houses of good cheer where there were frequent sing-a-longs and lashings of ginger beer in a nautically themed manor.
Realising that she was onto a good thing in all this, and that she would not have time to split between the charity and the company, Hermione began casting around for someone to oversee the running of her company well, and who wouldn't demand to high a fee. In the end it came down to the only other person who she knew who had as good a grasp of Arithmancy as she did without an ego the size of a brown dwarf (the stellar kind, not the potato-like variety). The only person to spring to mind was a heavily pregnant Penelope Clearwater… no, Weasley… FitzMalfoy. Her, anyway. Ron's AWOL half-brother's pregnant ex-wife, who had enough on her plate to appreciate the offer and be grateful that the paperwork kept her behind a desk for most of the time. And since the location of the desk wasn't all that important, it made little difference to Hermione that the desk Penny had chosen was in Romania, in the middle of a dragon colony. The addition of a little mystery to her life was just what Miss Granger had been missing.
All in all it worked out very nicely, and soon there was to be a Granger presence in every town in Britain with a significant wizarding population, the 24 hour earnest goodwill ensuring that only the truly desperate would enter, and indeed had resurrected the phrase "I'd rather go to the GALLOWS". Hermione didn't know this of course. She'd be terribly upset. That was not the kind of talking point she'd envisioned.
And somewhere in the course of all this, Hermione and Derrick fell truly, madly and deeply in romantic (read: vomit-inducing) love. I won't bore you with the details, excepting one exchange that passed between them as they prepared for their wedding. The wedding itself was to be a lavish affair as befitted their newly improved fortunes (never let it be said that charity can't be profitable, after all) and the business was still producing revenues under capable management as it was since Penelope had taken office as CEO.
Hermione had just finished relating the story of how a higher power had intervened to bring them together, when she sighed and sat down.
"Still, there's one thing I don't understand. Ron said you would have a significant name. It's not that I don't like 'Derrick' but it's hardly significant…"
Derrick just smiled in that little way he had when he knew something she didn't, gentle and not at all condescending. It was a lovely smile, sadly under-used and Hermione was fighting a constant battle with her pride most of the time to free it. But not this time. This time she was truly clueless.
To cover the fact she continued,
"Well it's a derivative of Derek, which is low German for Theodric, which means gifted ruler in Old German…"
But Derrick was shaking his head. "Think more recent…like Tyburn…"
Hermione thought. And then a bit more. And then everything clicked.
"DAMMIT!"
REFERENCES:
Pirates of the Caribbean
Terry Pratchett
U2
The Matrix
Sirius Trouble
Monty Python – back to the Spanish Inquisition sketch I'm afraid…
Edward Monkton's greeting cards
Shaun of the Dead
Secret Window
Potter Puppet Pals
Prisoner of Azkaban - the film, not the book
Oh, and Derrick – it means gallows.